


What The Fuck Happened Last Night?

by MirabileLectu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Biting, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, First Kiss, First Time, Handcuffs, Light Bondage, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-21
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirabileLectu/pseuds/MirabileLectu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are several combinations of things that are known to have disastrous consequences for everyone involved. Seven bottles of wine, two very drunk flatmates, and one pair of handcuffs might just be the worst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story originated as a ficlet attached to a brilliant piece of artwork, until it grew into a full story. The ficlet can be found [here](http://mirabilelectu.tumblr.com/post/18854587247/sherlockiansforlife-hungariansherlockian) and the original art can be found [here](http://sh2jw.tumblr.com/post/18852908940). All credit for the idea and inspiration go to the original artist and their fantastic work.

Sunlight had no cause to be that bright, honestly. Not when you were waking up with the worst hangover you’d had in years, a hangover so bad that it nearly matched several of the mornings when he’d woken up covered in his own vomit and delirious from the amount of cocaine he’d injected into his body the night before. To have the sun already causing pain by beating at his closed eyelids simply wasn’t fair, and he was  _not_  happy about it.

With a groan, Sherlock rolled over onto his side and pushed himself into a sitting position, his head spinning wildly as he did so. There was a brief moment of panic as it felt like the room would spin out of control and the contents of his stomach would make a sudden appearance all at the same time, but with several deep breaths the moment passed. Sherlock still did not want to open his eyes, did not want to admit to himself that this was happening.

How had this happened, anyway? How on earth had he allowed himself to get into this state again after so many years? His memories of the night before were distressingly scattered, beginning to fall apart around the time the first bottle of champagne had been opened in celebration of successfully catching a murderer that had been at large for twenty years. After that, nothing. Nothing but a blur of colors and snippets of memory that blended together into a picture that made no sense. Because it made no sense for him to vaguely recall a shirt flying into the air, or handcuffs being clumsily dragged out of a bedside drawer. Ridiculous.

Well, there was nothing for it then. If he was to figure out what had happened to him last night - and he  _would_  figure it out - he would have to brave the sun and open his eyes. He groaned again as he peeled his eyes open, hating himself more with every millimeter, until he was blinking blearily and looking around his room for clues.

_What?_

Well that made no sense. Why were there  _two_  empty glasses on the floor of his bedroom? And why were John’s trousers carelessly discarded next to the empty bottles as if they had every right to be there? Dawning horror began to work its way into Sherlock’s clouded brain, and his eyes opened wide with shock as he tried to process this information. Headache forgotten, he jumped out of bed and whirled around only to have his worst fears confirmed.

John was in his bed. Or, to put it more accurately, John was  _handcuffed_  to his bed, passed out and entirely naked except for the shirt that had not quite made it off his shoulders. The carnage of their night was littered around him - more empty bottles, a bottle of lubricant, empty condom wrappers clearly thrown aside in drunken, careless haste. There was a ring of blood around the handcuff from where John had pulled against the restraint, more blood around his mouth, and nearly countless bruises, bite marks, and scrapes covering his body. Sherlock suddenly felt the sting of the scratch and bite marks covering his shoulders and back, and the soreness of muscles that had not been strenuously used in years. As he looked at John, still blissfully unaware of what he would wake up to, Sherlock felt his mind begin to spin out of control in horror, confusion, and no small amount of remembered arousal.

_What the **fuck**  happened last night?_

-                                                                              

In reality several seemingly unrelated things had happened last night, all coming together to create one life-changing, earth-shattering, panic-inducing moment the next morning. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Things had started out normally enough, back in the early hours of the evening. The night had begun as it frequently did, with sirens and police and a chase across London to catch a murderer. Simple, really, even considering the fact that the murderer they were after had been on the loose for nearly twenty years and had never even come close to being caught. This of course only excited Sherlock further, and made him determined that he would not only catch the man, but do it before the night was out. The manic gleam in his eyes when Lestrade offered the case should have been John’s first warning that things would not be as straightforward as he hoped, but hindsight, as they say, is always 20/20. Or when there are copious amounts of alcohol involved, hindsight is more of a regretful blur that doesn’t really help much at all.

Several incomprehensible but assuredly brilliant deductions later, Sherlock and John were racing across the city on their own in hopes of catching the man before he took his next victim. John personally thought that they should have waited for backup, or assistance, or just someone else with a gun, really, considering who they were dealing with, but Sherlock had been insistent that they leave _now_ or they would miss him. And so they were running from where their cab had dropped them off into what seemed to be the darkest and most threatening area of all of London, absolutely alone. No backup in sight, and probably not going to arrive for at least fifteen minutes. _Fabulous._

Sherlock flitted from shadow to shadow, eyes gleaming with the joy of the hunt and the chase and the Game _finally_ being on as they closed in on their target. He felt as though every nerve in his body were singing, finely tuned and ready to jump at the slightest indication that the murderer was close at hand. This was what living should feel like, he thought to himself happily as his mind whirred and buzzed happily processing the new data it was receiving. This was why he endured all those countless hours and days of restless boredom when it felt like his mind was going to devour itself whole. _This_ excitement, this thrill made it all worthwhile. He looked back quickly into the darkness, making sure that John was still behind him and ready with his gun should the need arise. His mouth twitched into a momentary grin as he locked eyes with him, glad that John was here to experience the joy of the chase with him and to provide backup should things go wrong. John looked decidedly less excited about the prospect of danger, however. He frowned slightly at Sherlock’s grin, quirking his head a bit as if to say “What on earth could you be happy about right now?”. Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly. Of course John did not understand. Oh well, at least he was useful with that gun of his.

A sudden flash of movement from the shadows of a nearby alleyway caught Sherlock’s eye, and all worries about John vanished in an instant. This was when things got dangerous, when the killer was cornered but not captured and became desperate enough to do something remarkably stupid. Eyes narrowed, vision sharpened, concentration focused, and his entire body tensed in readiness to jump and spring and catch his prey. Luckily for him, the man killed his victims by strangling them instead of using a gun or a knife or some other weapon that could cause severe damage in a melee, and the killer was getting quite on in years. Still, no reason to get sloppy now. Moving slowly around to where he had seen the furtive movement, Sherlock suddenly caught a glimpse of a dark figure crouched on the ground over what appeared to be the body of a woman. Sherlock froze momentarily, taken aback by what he was seeing. Had he been wrong? Was he too late? But before he could be stalled entirely by self-doubt the woman on the ground moved, struggling weakly against her attacker. She clearly did not have long left, but she was still alive. Sherlock needed to move, and he needed to do it _now._

There was only one thing for it then. John would kill him for this if it didn’t work, but if it didn’t work they actually had much bigger things to worry about than any recklessness that may or may not be involved with the decision he was about to make. His eyes lighted quickly on a length of metal pipe that lay discarded in the alleyway next to a rubbish skip. Perfect. Moving at lightning speed, Sherlock grabbed the thankfully quite heavy piece of pipe, moved over behind the murderer, and just as the man realized what was going on, whacked him so soundly upside the back of the head that he toppled over clean off the woman he had been trying to strangle. It was rather funny, actually, the way he had looked at Sherlock with an “O” of surprise on his face before he had crumpled. Sherlock smiled widely to himself, thrilled with how successful his hasty plan had been, and flipped the pipe end over end in his hand as John ran over to make sure the woman was alright.

The man who had murdered 12 people in the last 20 years was caught and subdued, and it wasn’t even 9PM.

All in a night’s work.

-

It wasn’t until half past 11 that Sherlock and John finally made it back to the flat, exhausted but happy. There had been copious amounts of paperwork and interviews and questions to be bothered with down at the Yard, but Sherlock had finally been able to bully his way out of there with promises of full interviews the next day if he could just get some bloody sleep now, thanks. He wasn’t going to sleep, of course, not for a long time yet, but it was a good excuse. And besides, the Yarders had been in uncharacteristically good moods tonight and had been inclined to let him do as he pleased after he had handed them a serial killer neatly trussed up and ready to arrest. Lestrade had even given them a bottle of expensive champagne as a thank you gift, undoubtedly at the Yard’s expense but still a nice enough present all things considered. John seemed to appreciate it at least if his smile was anything to go by, and he grinned at the bottle and Sherlock and the room at large as he flopped into his armchair with a sigh of relief.

“Well, I’d say that was a successful night, wouldn’t you?” he asked with a smile, his voice teasingly nonchalant as he kicked off his shoes and stretched his legs.

Sherlock suppressed a smile at the flippant remark, instead rolling his eyes and answering “Successful yes, but hardly worth noting. The case was simple enough once you got the idiots at the Yard out of the way.”

John only grinned wider in response, obviously seeing straight through Sherlock’s caustic tone. That should have bothered him, Sherlock mused, to have someone in his life who could see through his façade so easily. Perhaps it was simply an indicator of John’s usefulness and indispensability that he was not bothered at all.

“So, what do you think then?” John asked mischievously, pointing to the bottle sitting innocently on the coffee table. When Sherlock did not immediately reply he gestured again and asked “Want to crack this thing open in celebration? I don’t think we’ll get many better opportunities than this.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes yet again. “Please, John, like I said if you had cared to listen this is hardly an occasion worth noting.” He sniffed, then added primly, “Besides, you know I don’t drink.”

Now it was John’s turn to roll his eyes at Sherlock, a role reversal that suited him rather all too well for comfort. “Oh yes I know, alcohol is nothing but social lubricant for the drooling masses that makes it all the more difficult for them to think clearly, I remember.” He parroted Sherlock’s words back at him exactly (well not exactly and in a much more put-upon tone than Sherlock had originally used, but that was entirely besides the point) before continuing “But come _on_ Sherlock, can’t you let loose just this once? You closed a decades-long investigation in two hours, surely that has to be some kind of record even for you?” His voice was pleading, with something else potentially lurking under the surface that Sherlock could not identify. Sherlock was wary, but seeing the sparkle in John’s eyes made something in him relent just the tiniest bit.

“Oh all right, just one glass if it means that much to you.”

In the long and illustrious history of Famous Last Words, that sentence holds a special place of honor as both the most well-intentioned, and the most idiotic.

One very expensive bottle of champagne later, and Sherlock was beginning to feel delightfully tipsy. Well, more than tipsy if he was going to be honest with himself, which he always was even when he didn’t want to be. It had been many years since he last indulged like this, keeping a tight control over himself lest he should slip back into the fantastically fun and wonderfully self-destructive cocaine habit he had cultivated for many years. Mycroft watched him like a hawk of course, determined to keep his baby brother away from the demon drug at all costs, including and not limited to surprise inspections, random drug tests, and nights spent in jail if he thought Sherlock was slipping. For his part, Sherlock simply shrugged his shoulders and let Mycroft continue to believe that he was some sort of guardian angel, all while keeping an emergency supply of cocaine hidden in the flat _just_ in case. He never intended to use it, of course. But it was comforting to know it was there.

But now, with three glasses of champagne in him and the high of solving the case still buzzing in his veins, Sherlock could feel his tightly regimented control slipping. What was the harm, after all? As John had said, he should be able to let loose a tiny bit every now and then. It wasn’t like he was going back to the cocaine – no, he was simply enjoying a few glasses of well-deserved champagne with his friend after catching one of London’s most wanted criminals. There was no harm in that. And besides, John was here to make sure that nothing bad happened to him. That’s what John was for, really. Might as well put him to good use.

_Make use of him, I like that. I’m sure there are many other ways John could be put to good use._ A giggle escaped from Sherlock at that thought, startling him. He hadn’t giggled in…well he couldn’t really remember how long. Come to think of it, the last time had laughed like that was when he had first met John all those months ago, when they had run through London the first time and caught their very first murderer. They had laughed about his death together as they had walked through a the crime scene with not a care in the world. How fitting.

After a moment Sherlock realized that John was looking at him with an expression of confusion even greater than the one he normally wore on his face. “Sherlock, did you just…giggle?” John’s face was flushed pink from the champagne, but he appeared to be in much better shape than Sherlock was thanks to his regular trips down to the pub with Stamford. He grinned suddenly when Sherlock did not deign to answer his question and said with an evil chuckle “Oh, this is fantastic. You’re drunk already, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’m not” Sherlock scoffed, offended that John should think so little of him. “I’m perfectly fine, thank you, and I could drink much more and still be perfectly fine. I can handle my alcohol.”

This of course marked the evening’s second entry onto the list of Famous Last Words.

John’s smile grew, becoming positively demonic in the dim lighting of the flat as he looked across the table at Sherlock. “Well if you’re so sure then, shall we continue?” he asked innocently, the calm of his voice belied by the dangerous sparkle of his eyes. “The shop’s still open for another hour, I can always go buy some more.”

The last vestiges of Sherlock’s common sense rumbled a warning at these words, but the alcohol and the bubbles and the sudden heat of his face drowned out any such noise and led him to answer with a dismissive wave of his hand “Of course. Buy as much as you want, I’ll be fine.”

Twenty minutes later Sherlock realized that his particular choice of words may have been a mistake. Because John had taken his offer to “buy as much as he wanted” not as an invitation to purchase a few more bottles, but a challenge. That was the only explanation for why the kitchen table was now groaning under the weight of what appeared to be the entire wine section of the shop down the road and why John was looking at Sherlock with hands on hips and a smug expression. He seemed enormously pleased with himself to have temporarily shocked Sherlock into silence by purchasing so much wine, but that was understandable. It wasn’t like he got the upper hand often, so it was probably best to let him enjoy this while he could.

“So genius, still think you’ll be fine?” he asked in a voice both sweet and deadly as any poison.

Sherlock swallowed heavily, then looked John in the eye with a grin and answered “Ready when you are.”

_Pop!_

The second bottle of champagne went down much faster than the first, aided by tipsy eagerness and the underlying simmer of competition. They swigged the wine (thankfully much less expensive than the first bottle) as if their lives depended on it, as if it were the only water available and they were dying of thirst. Sherlock could feel the tingle of the alcohol spreading through his body as his face flushed and his vision blurred. This was fantastic. This was better than the cocaine, better than the cases, better than anything really. He’d never thought that alcohol could feel this wonderful, or that he could have so much fun drinking it with a friend. He’d never even thought that he’d _have_ a friend to drink it with, but here he was sitting in his flat, laughing and drinking and sharing the evening with a friend of his very own. He smiled again at the thought, not caring that he probably looked ridiculous as he did so. Let him look absurd, tonight he did not care. Tonight all that mattered was John, and laughter, and the wine.

_Pop!_

The next bottle was opened with a raucous yell of joy and surprise, the cork flying across the room and smashing something that would not be discovered until the morning. Neither John nor Sherlock cared in the slightest, roaring with laughter as the champagne fizzed and overflowed out of the bottle. John caught the foam in his mouth, licking eagerly up the side of the bottle to keep the bubbles off the floor and giggling happily as they tickled his nose. Something shifted inside Sherlock as he watched this, making him feel suddenly dizzy and hot and uncomfortable in a way he had not felt for years. It was just the wine though. It had to be. And wasn’t the room much too warm anyway? That was the only logical explanation, and a problem that could be easily remedied while he carefully avoided watching John’s tongue sliding up the side of the cold bottle. He went to peel off his jacket, only to discover that he had in fact done that ages ago and was now only in his shirt and trousers. Well. That just left the shirt then, which was much too tight really and not even necessary in the privacy of your own flat, if you came to think about it. The sleeves were rolled up, buttons were loosened and undone all the way down to his navel, and Sherlock tried very hard not to notice how John’s eyes seemed to become glued to him straight away and burned brighter as each successive inch of flesh was revealed.

_Pop!_

They had moved away from the champagne now, agreeing that red wine was far superior and didn’t come with any of the mess or fuss of that bubbly stuff. They were sitting together on the couch, leaning gently on each other for support as they passed the bottle back and forth to pour more glasses. John’s jumper had disappeared not long after Sherlock’s shirt had been unbuttoned, leaving him looking deliciously rumpled and casual and lots of other words that Sherlock could not quite remember at the moment. His head was really spinning now, and his vision blurred every so often if he moved too fast or thought too hard about what was happening. But that was perfectly fine with him, since right now all he cared to concentrate on was the warmth of John pressed up against his side and the faint trace of red around his mouth from the wine. Even now a droplet was trailing from his lips as he spoke, running down his chin with tantalizing slowness and leaving a line of bright red in its wake. Sherlock was fascinated, absolutely enthralled by this tiny drop of wine and its slow journey down John’s chin. Would it taste different, since it had been in John’s mouth? Would it feel different, having touched John’s lips? He suddenly found that he needed to know, and without thinking he reached over and gently brushed his thumb across John’s lips and down his face to catch the elusive drop of wine. John stilled immediately, whatever he had been saying dying on his lips as all his focus went down to the feather-light touch of Sherlock’s skin on his own. His breath caught in his throat as Sherlock slowly trailed his thumb across his skin, hardly daring to breathe lest the moment be ruined. With careful precision, Sherlock brought his thumb up to his own mouth and licked at it with obscene slowness, closing his eyes as he sucked his finger in between perfectly shaped lips. He rolled his tongue around the finger slowly, catching every last bit of wine and savoring the flavor of grapes and skin and _John_. He opened his eyes slowly to look over at John himself, who was sitting gaping at Sherlock with flushed face and open mouth, eyes wide with amazement. Sherlock smiled crookedly.

“Thank you, that was delicious.”

_Pop!_

Time seemed to jump, or crawl, or roll unevenly along in clumps – Sherlock wasn’t really sure which but it hardly mattered now did it? However time had progressed, they were soon opening another bottle, two this time in fact and they were quite proud of themselves for having thought of it. It seemed easier if they both had their own bottle to drink out of after all, much faster than this tedious sharing business. They were giggling uncontrollably like school children now, remembering the look on Lestrade’s face last week when he had tried to flash his badge imperiously at someone only to discover it had been mysteriously replaced with a child’s plastic police badge. Sherlock had plead perfect innocence when accused, claiming that such petty tricks were beneath him and that he certainly had better things to do than nick a policeman’s badge. That was an utter lie of course, and they had chuckled about it mightily later that evening when Sherlock had carelessly tossed the badge into a pile of many more he had stolen over the years.

“His face!” John gasped, his sides aching with laughter. “I’ve never seen him so confused!”

“And that’s quite the feat for him, consid’ring how he normally looks” Sherlock replied, slurring his words only slightly and even then justifiably so thanks to his fits of laughter.

“How many of those things have you stolen?” John asked, wiping tears from his eyes.

Sherlock considered this for a moment, thinking hard as if he had just been asked the meaning of life or what he wanted to be when he grew up. “Well” he started unsteadily, swaying a bit “with that one I think it was…I think it was fifteen. Maybe sixteen. I can’t remember.” He hiccupped slightly, then tried to cover it with a cough in a failed attempt to retain his dignity.

John did not seem to notice however, instead gaping at Sherlock in total astonishment. “Sixteen?” he asked, as amazed as if Sherlock had admitted to stealing the Mona Lisa. “How did you steal sixteen badges from a policeman? From an inspector? From a policeman-inspector?”

Sherlock only grinned wickedly, and then leaned in and whispered “And that’s not the only thing I’ve stolen.” John’s eyes grew even wider, and Sherlock continued “Last year, when he wasn’t looking, I took…I took…I took a pair of his handcuffs!” He announced this in a dramatic whisper, and John gasped appropriately.

“No way!” he breathed, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes full of wonder. He stared for a moment, and then shook his head as if he could not accept it. “Nope, I don’t believe you. Even you couldn’t nick a copper’s handcuffs without him noticing. No way.”

“You don’t believe me?” Sherlock asked in carefully over-exaggerated horror. When John shook his head again, tilting slightly at the sudden movement, Sherlock stood up as quickly as he could manage and began to shuffle over towards his bedroom, taking his bottle and glass with him. “Come on, then.”

John stood up as well, although much less elegantly that Sherlock had managed, and tottered after him slowly with his own bottle and glass clutched carefully in his hands. By the time he entered Sherlock’s room, his friend had dived headfirst into one of the drawers of his bedside table and was bent over double rummaging around for something that had apparently migrated towards the very back. John swayed a bit where he stood in the doorway, trying extremely hard and failing just as spectacularly not to look at Sherlock’s arse. It wasn’t fair, really. He couldn’t be blamed for stealing a little ogle when the man insisted on wearing such wonderfully tight pants, or when he bent over so attractively like that, or when he walked around just generally being gorgeous all the time. Thankfully Sherlock found whatever it was he had been searching for before John’s thoughts could travel any further down that dangerous path and he stood up triumphantly brandishing a pair of shiny silver handcuffs. He stumbled over to John, waving them in his face excitedly.

“See! I told you I nicked them!” He waggled them again, as though John needed to have them shoved in his face to be assured they were real.

“Yes, well, that’s good. Well actually it’s not good ‘cause you really shouldn’t steal from the police, but it’s good that you did it. And that you have them. Good.” John took a hasty swig from his wine bottle as his voice trailed off, unsure of what to do next. A sudden idea popped into his head, or to be slightly more accurate it stumbled into his mind half-formed and hazy in its consideration. But if he didn’t take the piss out of Sherlock now, when was he going to get the chance again? And what was the worst that could happen?

Although it occurred much later than the other two and was not actually vocalized, John’s contribution to the list of Famous Last Words proved to be the most disastrous by far.

“You know,” he said slowly, pulling his most ridiculous mockery of Sherlock’s “thinking” face, “I don’t think those are real handcuffs. I think you just bought those to feel special or important or cool or something like you do with your big stupid coat. I bet those don’t even work.”

Sherlock’s face had been turning steadily more and more thunderous as John spoke, so that by the end of his little speech Sherlock looked positively murderous. Before John had a chance to rethink his course of action or back away or apologize, Sherlock had taken the cuffs and snapped one of the bracelets onto his right wrist with a very real, very permanent sounding click.

“Does that feel real to you, John?” he hissed softly, leaning in close to glare into John’s eyes. John tried to surreptitiously tug at the cuff while maintaining eye contact, but it was no good. The chain links of the cuffs were held fast in Sherlock’s fist, and the cold metal of the bracelet refused to budge in the slightest. Sherlock smiled wickedly as he felt John pull at the handcuffs, his eyes gleaming brightly. “Oh, I don’t think so” he murmured with a voice suddenly as smooth as velvet and more dangerous than anything John had ever heard. “If you don’t think they’re real, then why don’t you try to get out of them?”

John pulled again, but Sherlock showed no signs of letting go. He growled softly, annoyed now. “Alright, you’ve made your point. Let me go.” But Sherlock did not move, still staring at John with narrowed eyes and keeping his face much too close for this to be written off as just another argument. “Let me go, Sherlock” he repeated, more insistent this time. But Sherlock still did not let go, as if he were daring John to just _do_ something about it already.

And so, dropping his glass and bottle with a sudden crash, John reached up, pulled down Sherlock’s face to his own, and did something about it.

Their lips came together with bruising force, teeth clashing and catching on delicate skin. Sherlock froze for a moment in sudden shock, but after only a moment’s hesitation began to return the kiss in earnest, growling angrily as teeth collided once more. John pushed his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth as a response, hungrily tasting lips and tongue and trying to claim that mouth for his own. Sherlock pushed back, battling for dominance as he kissed John hungrily and greedily. John’s hand was still tangled up in his hair, holding him in place as they kissed as though the world were about to end, as though their lives depended on this moment, depended on nothing but their lips and tongues and teeth coming together in hot, messy kisses.

The wine sang in Sherlock’s blood as he tasted every inch of John’s mouth, discovering him and making up for so many missed opportunities and so much wasted time. There was a sudden stab of pain as John nipped Sherlock’s bottom lip, and when he pulled away in surprise and saw the wicked grin on John’s face he thought to himself _Two can play at that game._ With a shove he threw John against the wall of the bedroom, his back and head hitting with a force that would likely bruise in the morning but for now only served to make John’s eyes open wide with shock. Sherlock crowded into his space, leaning in close and using the handcuff to pin his hand over his head on the wall. They were flush up against each other now, every inch of their bodies pressed together so that Sherlock could feel the heat of John’s skin and the trembling of his body and the hard planes of muscle pushed against his own. One look into John’s eyes at the pupils blown so wide that his irises had nearly disappeared told Sherlock all he needed to know about how welcome these kisses were. Then again, the obvious bulge pressed against his thigh was rather a tell-tale clue as well, but that was beside the point.

Sherlock dove in for another kiss, taking the lead this time and utterly immobilizing John with his body and hands and mouth. He dominated John with kisses, leaving him gasping and squirming against the wall as he kissed him without pause, not once relenting or letting him stop and catch his breath. John struggled, obviously desperate to get his hand on Sherlock or take more control or do _something_ , but Sherlock was having none of it. He used the handcuff and the weight of his body to keep John pinned in place against the wall, his taller frame looming over John as he held his arm up over his head. John never stood a chance.

The kiss grew more heated, and Sherlock felt like he was on fire, like he needed to touch every inch of John _right_ now or he would explode with frustration and desire and other feelings he had not even known he possessed until five minutes ago. Using the handcuff as an improvised leash he pulled John around fast enough to make him yelp with pain and pushed hard on his chest so he fell backwards on the bed with a surprised _whump_. He looked incredible lying there: lips red from kisses, eyes blown wide with desire, utterly disheveled and happy and _perfect._ Sherlock all but pounced on him, straddling his hips on the bed and ripping his shirt open with absolutely no care taken for the buttons he sent flying off into the darkness. He kissed John again, once more taking control and pushing his tongue into John’s mouth as he ran his hands over the warm flesh of John’s chest with delicate reverence. Delicate, that is, until John nipped hard at his bottom lip one more time and then pulled away to bite again, this time on the tender skin of his neck.

Sherlock started at the sudden pain and growled softly. _Oh, that’s how you want it?_ He dug his fingers into John’s ribs in a startled response, and leaned down to bite his neck in return. John gasped, arching his back beneath Sherlock and scraping his fingernails in deep scratches across his back. It stung sharply, the lines burning like fire across the skin of his back, and Sherlock thought that he had never felt anything quite so wonderful. He smiled and bit again, this time biting down even harder on John’s collarbone where it stood out in sharp relief against the muscle of his chest. A moan greeted this bite, telling Sherlock all he needed to know about how to proceed with John. An idea flashed through his mind, breaking through the haze of alcohol and string of thoughts reduced to simply _JohnskinlipsJohnheatkissyesohgodJohn_. With a sudden lunge, he pulled hard on the empty handcuff bracelet, causing John to yelp again as Sherlock forcibly pulled him up the bed by the wrist.

_Click!_

John stared up at the handcuff bracelet that was now firmly placed around the railings of Sherlock’s headboard in shock. He pulled gently, testing to see if Sherlock had _actually_ just handcuffed him to his bed or whether this was some sort of elaborate game. But no, it was real and John was definitely now locked to his flatmate’s bed and at his absolute mercy. Sherlock loomed over him, smiling wickedly as he began to press hungry kisses to his chest and run his nimble fingers over the straining muscles that were now pulled tight by the cuffs.

“Is this alright?” Sherlock mumbled quietly into John’s skin, thankfully remembering through the alcohol that permission was in fact one of those pesky things you needed when doing something like this. He held his breath in the silence that followed, praying that _yes_ it would be alright and that he could continue with the half-formed ideas and thoughts that were buzzing in his brain.

But thankfully after only a brief moment of silence, John breathed out a soft “Oh, _yes_.”

Things got a little hazy after that. There was more kissing, to be sure. They kissed until their mouths were red; they nipped and licked and sucked on each other’s lips until they were gasping for air and delirious from sensation. At one point Sherlock became a little too enthusiastic with the prospect of biting John, drawing crimson blood that mixed with the wine still present on his lips. Sherlock kissed it away, lapping hungrily at the redness and savoring the salty/sweet mixture as though it were the best taste in the world. Desperate whines escaped John’s throat as Sherlock pressed kisses and bites in quick succession down his body, whines that turned into moans as he circled a tongue around sensitive nipples.

“Christ!” John shouted, bucking wildly. Sherlock had bitten down, hard, on his right nipple, and John was still seeing stars as that damn tongue flicked an insincere apology. Before he could regain his bearings Sherlock moved his attention to the other nipple, teasing again with gentle flicks before biting down once more. John couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t do anything but writhe and moan as Sherlock took him apart piece by piece with nothing but teeth and tongue and clever fingers. He kept pulling uselessly at the handcuff, desperate to get his hands on the gorgeous creature in front of him, but it was no good. He was stuck, and Sherlock didn’t seem ready to let him out any time soon. The skin around the handcuff bracelet was becoming raw and tender from all the frantic pulling and John was certain that he could feel some warm wetness running down his arm. He didn’t care. He was feeling no pain now, only dizzy pleasure more intense than anything he had felt in years.

Sherlock had worked his way down John’s chest now and hovered uncertainly over John’s belt buckle. What to do now? There were so many possibilities that his head spun trying to process them all, but the answer suddenly burned brightly in his mind as if he’d known it all along. He needed to taste John’s cock. Now.

He fumbled at John’s belt buckle, cursing his clumsy fingers and the idiot who had designed belts in the first place and society as a whole until he finally worked it free. He threw the belt aside (but still noted where it fell in case it was needed for later use) and practically ripped John’s trousers off in his eagerness. The bulge in John’s pants was the most beautiful thing Sherlock had ever seen, and he pressed his face into the warm fabric of his boxers and breathed in the scent of sweat, and musk, and precum, and _John_. He ghosted his breath along the length of John’s cock through the fabric, making John twitch upwards in eagerness and impatience. Sherlock chuckled and ran his tongue teasingly up the shaft just to hear him groan once more.

“Oh John, the things I’m going to do to you.”

Time slid messily sideways once more in a blur of hastily discarded clothing and lips and cries of wordless pleasure. One moment Sherlock was biting and licking and sucking his way up John’s thighs, trying to see exactly how many different ways he could make John groan and sigh and moan with frustrated ecstasy without even touching his cock. The next moment, that cock was swallowed deep in Sherlock’s mouth and he was savoring the weight and feel and taste of something he had not even known he wanted until now. John was writhing  and crying out in pleasure, twisting and bucking against Sherlock every time he flicked his tongue along the head or took it even deeper into his throat. Sherlock loved this, loved the feel of John in his mouth, loved the sense of power John’s frantic cries gave him, loved the salty taste of precum on his tongue and the smell of sex and sweat in his nostrils. This was perfect.

“Sherlock, please, Sherlock” John panted, nearly unintelligible with moans and sighs. “Please, Sherlock, I’m going to come, don’t, not yet.” He whined again as Sherlock slowly pulled his mouth away, running his tongue along the length of his prick one last time as he did so. Sherlock certainly didn’t want John to come yet, not before he got a chance to make use of him in this restrained position. He crawled back up John’s body, leaving a trail of bites and kisses as he went.

“I’m going to fuck you, John” he whispered roughly. John shuddered beneath him and muttered something incomprehensible. “What was that?”

“Please. Please, I need you to. Please.”

Sherlock’s heart nearly stopped to hear John beg, to see him like this, wanton and straining against his restraints and pleading to be fucked. The world seemed to blur again as he fumbled in his bedside drawer for condoms and lubricant, acquired long ago for a case and immediately forgotten. He barely remembered the messy application of cold gel to his fingers, only recalled flashes of working John open with slick fingers until he was gasping and trembling with need once more. But that was not important. Nothing was important besides being inside John _right now_ , consequences be damned. With a burst of drunken strength, he grabbed John by the waist and flipped him over, not caring that he was still chained to the bed or that the motion twisted his arm at an uncomfortable angle. For his part, John did not seem to care much either, simply shifting to accommodate the change and ignoring the blood running slowly down his arm.

Seeing him like this, spread open and ready and waiting to be taken nearly undid Sherlock. He was aching by now, desperate for relief after lavishing so much attention on John and paying himself no mind. His own cock was harder than he could ever remember it being, straining and eager and leaking precum enough to nearly make the lubricant unnecessary. But he poured the lubricant on anyway over the condom he had rolled on with fumbling fingers, shuddering as he spread it over himself and concentrating very, _very_ hard on not coming immediately. He’d be _damned_ if he was going to come before getting the chance to fuck John, not after all this. He grabbed John roughly by the hips, and slid into him with a groan.

It was nearly over as quickly as it began. Feeling John, feeling his tightness and his heat around the throbbing of his cock made Sherlock feel as though he were about to explode, as though his body could not possibly handle the pleasure. Sherlock pushed in slowly, feeling the stretch of John’s arse around his cock and holding onto his hips with bruising force as though he would fall apart if he let go for even a moment. Finally though he was all the way in, and he stilled, reveling in the moment and allowing John time to adjust. But John had other ideas, growling angrily and pushing back against Sherlock.

“For fuck’s sake, I won’t break. Fuck me.”

That was all the invitation Sherlock needed. With an answering snarl of his own he grabbed John by the hair, pulling his head back and arching his back so that he was forced to bring up his free hand and grab the headboard to stay balanced. He gasped and held on for dear life as Sherlock began to roughly move in and out of him, slamming the bed against the wall with every thrust. Sherlock fucked him fast and hard and dirty, pounding in and out in a punishing rhythm. John was shouting now, yelling words that Sherlock could not quite understand but that sounded rather like “Yes god yes more fuck Sherlock oh fuck oh fuck”. Sherlock himself was incapable of words, all his concentration focused on his thrusts and on the heat and pressure growing in him. This would be quick, he knew. It was only because of the alcohol that he had not come as soon as he entered John, but even now he could feel his orgasm building and threatening to crash over him. With desperation he reached the hand not holding John’s head in place around to grasp his cock, stroking him fast and hard.

As if on a cue, John arched his back further with a scream. He came hard, shuddering and gasping and clenching around Sherlock. He nearly sobbed Sherlock’s name as his whole body convulsed, and even when he had ridden out the waves of his orgasm he still twitched and gasped as though he had lost all control of his body. That was the last straw for Sherlock. He had been barely hanging on, and the feeling of John clenching tight around his cock as he screamed his name was enough to push him over the edge. He pounded into John even harder as he came, feeling the pressure rise as he did so until it crested and the world went white.  He couldn’t see, could breathe, couldn’t do anything but moan out John’s name as he fell apart. His entire body shook with the force of his orgasm, nearly enough to shake him apart as he clung to John and cried out helplessly. He came for what felt like an eternity, shaking and trembling as he rode out wave after wave until he had nothing left to give.

With the last vestiges of his consciousness he pulled out of John shakily and collapsed on the bed next to him. The world was going dark now, everything fading and blurring and disappearing with alarming rapidity. His head spun as he began to lose consciousness, the world slipping through his fingers as blackness swiftly took over his vision. As he blacked out, he had time for one last thought, blurry and slurred even in his mind.

_I should really unlock John before I fall asl-_

-

The sun should never be that bright, it really shouldn’t. There was no reason for it, and it did nothing but cause unbearable amounts of pain when you were so hungover you felt like you were going to die. Death might actually be preferable to the way John was feeling right now, since if he were dead his head would not be pounding like a drum with every beat of his heart, the room would not be spinning viciously with his eyes still closed, and he would not feel like the slightest movement would bring the contents of his stomach up for a nasty surprise. John had not felt this horrible in years, probably not since he had been shot in fact, and that was really saying something since he had nearly bled out in the sand when that had happened. But this hangover was already promising to be rival a bullet to the shoulder, and he had only been awake for two minutes. Fantastic.

Even just lying here was causing John more pain than he could handle, and he tried to curl into a protective ball with a moan. His movement was cut abruptly short however, although the moan was not as the slight motion had lit up every one of John’s nerve endings like a firecracker. _What the hell?_ Every muscle in his body was sore, far more than they had any right to be from just a hangover, and he felt like he was covered in countless cuts, scrapes and bruises. In fact, he felt like he had been in a vicious fight  with a giant last night, and lost. Badly. Strangely though, he could feel nothing from his right arm. In fact, he couldn’t even move his right arm, and this fact was what had prevented him from curling into the fetal position. Panic surged through John as he struggled to feel his hand, and his eyes snapped open to see what the hell was going on.

_What?_

He blinked in confusion, unable to process what was happening. He was in Sherlock’s room, and he had absolutely no memory of how he had ended up there. In fact, he had barely any memories of last night past opening a bottle of champagne with Sherlock to celebrate solving their case. Everything was a jumble after that, but with dawning horror as he blinked blearily at the room that was not his own, memories began to sort themselves out and return to him. Drinking the first bottle. Buying more wine. _Lots_ more wine. Drinking wine like water. Arguing with Sherlock over handcuffs. Handcuffs being put on him.

Puzzle pieces fell together in his brain with terrible clarity. He looked down at himself, then up at his arm, and felt like he really would be sick. He was naked, chained to Sherlock’s bed, and covered in the unmistakable remnants of a night of truly fantastic sex. With Sherlock. _Oh, God._

Before he could succumb to a full-blown panic attack, he finally noticed Sherlock sitting on the edge of the bed staring at him in equal disbelief but with a small measure of amusement tingeing his face. John saw absolutely nothing funny about this situation, thank you very much, but at least Sherlock looked like he was in just as bad of shape as he was. He wasn’t covered in as many bruises as John thought he was, but he looked even paler than he normally did and was holding himself like his whole body was aching. Before John could ask what the _hell_ was going on, Sherlock smiled ruefully and rubbed his head with a wince.

“John, I think we need to talk about what happened last night.”


	2. Epilogue

John had participated in some truly awkward and uncomfortable “Morning After” talks in his time – mumbled apologies, insincere promises of a follow-up, embarrassed walks home in the same clothes as the night before that now smelled of that distinctive aroma that only a one night stand could bring. The nickname “Three Continents Watson” hadn’t come from nowhere, after all. His army mates might have _slightly_ overestimated the number of conquests he had made throughout the years (an illusion he was in no hurry to shatter), but to tell the truth it had not been a very large overestimation. John Watson was a man who liked to have sex, and he was good at it. He thought he had seen it all, thought that he had absolutely passed the point of being embarrassed by sex and that he would be able to take anything, and he meant _anything_ in stride.

That was of course until he had woken up naked, hungover, and chained to the bed of one Sherlock Holmes with absolutely no idea how he had gotten there.

The contents of his stomach were threatening to make a sudden and unwelcome appearance as he stared in horror at the handcuff around his wrist, not quite believing what he was seeing. How could this have _possibly_ happened? How on earth could he have been stupid enough to get so drunk that he would not only have sex with Sherlock ( _Sherlock_ ), but do so while handcuffed firmly enough in place to break the skin on his wrist? It didn’t make sense. And the fact that he could only recall tantalizing flashes of what appeared to be some of the best sex he had ever had only served to make this one of the _worst_ mornings he could ever remember.

John realized suddenly that Sherlock was speaking, pacing back and forth quickly next to the bed while muttering to himself rapidly and without pause. He was also still stark naked, a fact that did not seem to bother him in the slightest and bothered John a great deal. The condition of his arm meant that John was utterly unable to dress himself or regain any sort of modesty besides the sheet he had hastily draped around his waist, although thinking about it he supposed the cat was really out of the bag on that front. Still, better late than never. Sherlock seemed entirely unconcerned by any such trivial worries as modesty, or shame, or the fact that John was still handcuffed in a very uncomfortable position, concentrating only on his pacing and his quiet muttering.

“Sherlock, can you unlock me please?” John asked in what he considered an absolutely admirable tone of restrained calm, given the circumstances.

He was, of course, completely ignored.

“Sherlock, I’m serious, I need you to unlock me now” John repeated, frustration rising as his shoulder began to make its displeasure at the current situation known in the most unpleasant terms possible.

Sherlock continued to pace, oblivious.

“Sherlock Holmes if you do not unlock me right now I swear on all that is holy that they will never find your body.”

John’s hoarse shout rang through the bedroom, finally snapping Sherlock out of his fugue state. He turned his head and looked at the bed in surprise as if he had just remembered that John was in fact still present and yes, still locked to it. He frowned slightly and quirked his head to the side like a curious dog, quickly following the gesture with a pained wince that informed a viciously satisfied John that at least the bastard was still feeling his hangover as well. If John had to suffer, then Sherlock was damn well going to suffer along with him.

But despite having succeeded in gaining Sherlock’s attention, John appeared to be no closer to his goal of regaining the use of his right arm any time soon. Sherlock was staring at John in bewilderment, lost for words. Under any other circumstances John would have reveled in seeing Sherlock speechless, perhaps even tried to film it for future use when he was being even more of an annoying git than he usually was. But as things stood at the moment, John only wanted Sherlock to snap the hell out of it and get down to the pressing business of setting him free from the restraint so he could run far away and never leave his room again. Or possibly just vomit in his own bathroom. Whichever was easier, really.

“Sherlock, are you even listening to me?” Still no answer. Sherlock’s eyes were glazed slightly over, his brain evidently whirring at lightning speed and yet still stuck in place and incapable of moving forward. Wondering if perhaps volume was the issue, he repeated himself louder this time. “Please, I’m being serious. Please unlock me.”

This seemed to break Sherlock out of his daze, but instead of complying he shook his head. “No, I can’t unlock you. Not yet. Didn’t you hear me when I said we needed to talk?” Sherlock looked at John with the same disbelief as he usually did when John said something he considered particularly dense, but this time was different. This time, Sherlock was keeping John chained to a bed so they could “talk”, whatever that meant. This time, John was so embarrassed that he wanted to curl up and die somewhere, anywhere but here. This time, revulsion was threatening to take over John as he considered the implications of his actions and what they meant for his friend.

_Oh God, what did I do? Sherlock doesn’t do this, he never does this, oh God what happened?_ Panic was starting to seize John, sending his thoughts spiraling out of control as he struggled not to pull on the handcuff still holding him in place. Sherlock still seemed oblivious to his distress as he paced back and forth, the increasingly frantic pace of which only served to make John more nervous and upset. Fighting to keep his voice calm he asked “Can’t we talk with me out of the handcuffs? I really don’t enjoy this whole “being tied up” thing.”

Sherlock simply waved him off with a dismissive hand gesture, answering “Of course not, you’ll leave. We need to sort this out now.” But despite his insistence on “sorting it out”, whatever he meant by that, Sherlock seemed no closer to actually addressing the issue. John could see the confusion and alarm written large all over his friend in the tension of his limbs and the restless darting of his eyes, both of which only served to make the guilt and self-loathing building in him explode out of control. Even just thinking about what he must have done to Sherlock last night made John feel sick to his stomach, made him feel like he wanted to crawl in a hole and never see the light of day again. His head began to spin as a crushing weight of blame and self-hatred and horror settled on him like a stone, making it impossible to breathe or think or do anything but panic.

“Please Sherlock, I need to get up. I need to go shower, or something, _please_.” His voice was shaky and uneven, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help that he was currently having what felt like a full-blown anxiety attack, and that he wanted nothing more than to break down in private. It wasn’t like he was being _entirely_ unreasonable right now – if there was any circumstance that warranted a breakdown like this, it was realizing that you may have potentially molested a friend who wanted nothing to do with sex.

There was no hiding his emotional distress from Sherlock of course, not even if John had been trying. As soon as he heard the naked panic in John’s voice he turned to face him with a sneer, the derisive curl of his lip twisting his face into a mask made ugly by its scorn. “Oh yes, wonderful. A sexuality crisis – how perfectly original and useful for the situation.” His voice dripped with disdain, the usually rich baritone marred with the sarcasm and brutal cruelty that should have been reserved for things like boredom, stupid clients, and Anderson.

John recoiled as though he had been smacked in the face. Is that what Sherlock thought of him? That he was panicking because of some identity crisis, or that Sherlock’s gender was the issue here? That John would really be so narrow-minded to be doubting himself because of that? Anger and frustration surged within him and caused him to snap with no concern for how he sounded, “This isn’t a crisis over my sexuality, you _ass_ , I’m having a crisis because of what I did to _you_!” John’s voice broke on the last word, worry and anger and self-loathing making him nearly choke.

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to draw back, surprise and confusion written all over his face as he stared at John with wide eyes and mouth hanging slightly open as he tried to process John’s words. “Me? What could you have possibly done to me when _you’re_ the one handcuffed to the bed?”

All of John’s fears and worries exploded within him at once, and without even thinking about what he was saying he blurted out desperately “I…oh god, come on Sherlock. This was all my fault, all of it. I was the one that pushed you into drinking when you didn’t want to, I was the one that bought more wine when we should have stopped, I was the one that challenged you to drink more! This was all me! I knew you didn’t want to let loose, that you don’t do things like this. You don’t have sex, you never have sex, and I pushed you into it when I shouldn’t have just because I wanted to. Just because I can’t control myself and now I’ve done something horrible to you and you’ll hate me for it. I…I should have stopped, and now I’ve ruined everything.” He fell silent, shame and disgust at his actions overwhelming him. Everything was ruined now. Their friendship was probably over, and John had no one to blame but himself. Why would Sherlock want to remain friends with him after what he did? When he would be constantly reminded of his mistake, of his weakness, of the disgusting thing he had done thanks to John and his incessant pressure.

Just as it felt like John would drown in his own self-loathing however, Sherlock interrupted his thoughts by saying softly “You’re forgetting something John.” The strange tone of his voice caused John to look up in confusion, his heart racing. “The idea to drink may have been yours, but if I remember correctly the sex was in fact my idea. As were the handcuffs.”

“What are you saying?” John asked slowly, not sure what Sherlock was trying to tell him. _Is he…he can’t possibly be fine with this, can he?_

 There was a brief pause as Sherlock inhaled, looking for all the world like he was steeling himself for what he was about to say. When he finally did speak he was very carefully looking anywhere but at John, and his voice was so quiet that it was barely audible in the silent room. “You didn’t ruin anything, John, and this wasn’t your fault. It’s obvious that we both wanted this, on some level, not just you alone.”

The silence in the room was perhaps even more deafening now, so enormous that it felt as though the very air were holding its breath in anticipation. “You’re not…disgusted? Horrified? Angry?” John asked hopefully, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. But Sherlock shook his head at each question, leaving John nearly boneless with relief. “But I thought – I thought you didn’t do _this_ ” and with a wave of his free hand indicated himself and the room and the ridiculous situation that they had found themselves in.

The look Sherlock cast in his direction was measured and considering, with the tiniest hint of a smile shining in his eyes. “If you had been paying attention John, you would have heard me when I said that sex doesn’t frighten me. Just because I’ve not had sex lately doesn’t mean that I _don’t_.” He paused, and then shrugged. The casual gesture was jarring to see on a man who was normally so self-possessed and in control of his every movement. But considering the fact that nearly every single thing about this morning had been jarring in some way, this really was the least of John’s worries. “The right situation never presented itself – nor the right person for that matter.”

“I…oh.” For the second time that morning, John was speechless. It had absolutely never occurred to him that Sherlock had, or that he would be even remotely interested in something as messy and chaotic as sex. But here he was, telling John that sex did not horrify him at all. In fact, if the slight flush on Sherlock’s face or the way he was carefully ignoring John’s eye was anything to go by, it had even been something he enjoyed. And would perhaps be interested in again. John felt like his entire world had been flipped upside down in a matter of seconds, leaving him with nowhere to stand and no idea which way was up. So like any good Englishman dealing with a tricky emotional problem, he brushed right past the issue and ignored it.

“Yes, well um, I’m glad we got that, um, sorted. The thing is honestly my arm feels like it’s about to fall off over here so can you find the key for these things and unlock me?”

Sherlock looked over at him blankly, and John’s heart sank like a stone. “Key?” he asked in perfect innocence. “I stole those cuffs from Lestrade, why on earth would I have the key for them?”

The world went red, and John was fairly sure that he nearly pulled something in his struggle to not explode with sudden, violent rage. “You don’t…have…the _key_?” he hissed through gritted teeth, breathing slowly in and out through his nose in an attempt to retain even the barest minimum of calm. “Then how the _hell_ am I going to get out of these things?”

The smirk Sherlock sent him in response would probably have held up in court as undeniable proof of justified murder had John been close enough to reach him. Thankfully for Sherlock though, he was still far out of arm’s reach as he answered smugly “Please, John. What makes you think I need the key?”

He clambered onto the bed quickly in a flurry of long, impossible limbs, ignoring John’s squeak of protest at the fact that they were both still _very_ naked. With absolutely no consideration for John’s uncomfortable squirming he began to work at the lock with a pin that he had pulled from somewhere (John did not want to consider exactly _where_ it had come from for even one second), eyes narrowed in concentration as he knelt on the bed. John could feel his face growing steadily warmer and warmer as he tried to do anything but think about how close Sherlock was to him, or the long expanse of pale flesh so very near to his face, or the fact that flashes of memory from last night had chosen the worst possible time to make their reappearance. He tried, certainly. He also failed.

By the time the lock opened with a faint _click_ , John had nearly forgotten about his poor arm thanks to the uncomfortable heat of his face and the steadily growing and extremely distracting bulge he was trying diligently to hide underneath the blanket covering his lap. But his attention was momentarily stolen from that particular discomfort by the sudden introduction of his hand to his face when the offending arm was released from its handcuff and collapsed without any means of support. He lay there for a moment with a numb arm over his face, unable to muster up the energy to deal with this ridiculous situation. _Fantastic. Bloody fucking fantastic_.

But even as he lay there cursing alcohol and bad decisions and his lot in life in general, the stabbing pins and needles in his arm were interrupted by a brush of fingers so gentle he nearly missed it amidst the pain. Cracking his eyes open, he saw that Sherlock had taken the injured hand in his own and was softly rubbing circles into the numb flesh to speed the return of blood and sensation. John’s breath caught in his throat to see the tenderness of the gesture and the softness in Sherlock’s eyes as he examined the skin torn and bruised by the hard metal of the handcuff. He hardly dared move, afraid of breaking the moment and never seeing this side of Sherlock again. Those elegant fingers burned on his skin as they brought his arm back to life, gentling away the pain and soothing the fire that raged in his skin as the feeling returned to protesting muscles and burning nerves. And then, in a movement that nearly stopped John’s heart, Sherlock brought the damaged wrist up to his mouth and pressed a delicate kiss to the bloody and broken skin. His lips brushed against the wound, tender and delicate, the warmth of his breath and his skin and the very nearness of him washing over John in waves.

It was an apology, a thank you, a “please don’t be mad”, all in one simple kiss. But most importantly of all, it was a question. A way of asking without words for something more, something new, something they both wanted but were too afraid to say aloud for fear of breaking everything apart. John’s heart was pounding so hard he felt as though it would explode, as though he would fall apart before he could discover just how far this could go. But he would be damned if he was going to let fear get in the way of what he wanted, not now. He had never been a man to run away from danger, even when that danger was in the form of his brilliant, beautiful, absolutely mad flatmate who had yet again flipped his world on end. And so, in an unconscious echo of a motion he did not remember, John Watson once more reached up to pull Sherlock Holmes into an awkward, uncertain, perfect kiss.

This kiss was far more cautious than the first that had been reduced to only hazy memory, a gentle brush of hesitant lips asking “Is this alright?” with careful tenderness. But it certainly was alright, it was more than alright, and the second kiss confirmed it beyond any doubt. Any worries about Sherlock’s desire or enthusiasm vanished the instant when John felt his tongue probing at his lips and the hand that came to cup his jaw as Sherlock kissed with more passion that John would have ever thought possible. He kissed with his whole being, with every ounce of himself, with every part of his tremendous mind turned towards driving John insane with his lips and his tongue. John returned the kiss as thoroughly as he was able, attempting to say all the words bottled up within him and tell Sherlock all the things he had kept hidden for so long. He knew that they would have to talk, _really_ talk at some point, that what they were doing now was simply putting off the inevitable conversation about what this meant for them and their relationship. But for now he was content to ignore what they needed to do, and instead lose himself in the dance of Sherlock’s lips across his own and the disbelieving happiness that threatened to swallow him whole.

John felt like he was drowning in sensation, falling deep into a world that consisted only of the glide of lips and the tangle of tongues and the hot breath washing over him. Sherlock’s fingers traced gently along his jawline, moving restlessly and without pause to cover and touch and catalogue every inch of his skin with delicate reverence. A moan escaped from John, breathy and needy and nothing at all like his normal voice, but he didn’t care. Why would he care when Sherlock was making him feel like this, when those perfect lips were on his and those amazing hands were burning trails of fire across his skin? Unable to stop himself he reached up to tangle a hand in Sherlock’s ridiculous curls, fingers tightening and pulling on messy hair with every sigh and shiver that ran through him. He was falling apart, collapsing and being put back together with each kiss and flick of that devilish tongue.

It was not until John was delirious with kisses that Sherlock finally pulled away, moving his attention to John’s neck and the countless bite marks that covered it. He planted tender kisses on John’s neck and chest, brushing each bruise and each bite mark with a feather-light kiss as an apology for causing such angry wounds. He would not apologize with words, of course. Words were too difficult, too clumsy to use with John, especially now that their entire world had been turned on end in a single evening. This was a far more effective way for him to show his regret for having damaged John so badly, for having been the cause of this pain. He kissed each bruise with gentle tenderness, kissing and licking his way slowly down John’s body in an unconscious echo of his actions only a few hours ago. John squirmed impatiently under Sherlock’s mouth, wanting more touch, more tongue, more _anything_ but unwilling to lose this moment of having Sherlock’s undivided attention. Finally though, he could stand it no more. With a sudden surge he pushed Sherlock off of him and flipped him over onto the bed, pouncing and straddling him in one swift move.

“My turn” he growled softly into Sherlock’s ear, grinning evilly at the shudder that passed through him at the rough and breathy words. With a confident movement born of long practice John grabbed both of Sherlock’s hands by the wrists and pinned them over his head, startling an “Oh!” of surprise out of him and earning another shudder of excitement. John leaned down and nipped at Sherlock’s lips, biting playfully at that gorgeously full bottom lip that simply begged for hours of kissing and sucking and nibbling. But there would be plenty of time for that later. Now, he had more pressing matters at hand. With greedy tongue and happy kisses he worked his way down Sherlock’s jaw and gorgeous neck, peppering him with kisses and nips and gentle flicks of his tongue that had him straining for more. A quick nip on that absurd collarbone made him gasp, and a kiss pressed in the hollow of his throat brought out a sigh like John had not know Sherlock could even produce. He wanted more, more of this pliant and excited Sherlock to cover with kisses and feel every inch of, but his hands were stuck holding Sherlock’s wrists above his head. He briefly considered getting the handcuffs once more, but the last thing they needed was the man who could pick the locks being chained to the bed. A sudden idea flashed into his mind, one that made him grin with excitement and eagerness as he looked up at a Sherlock driven nearly mad by his inability to get his hands on John.

“Now what did you do with my belt again? I think I just figured out a good use for it.”

-

The phone rang out to voicemail yet again, leaving Detective Inspector Lestrade sighing in exasperation on the sidewalk outside of 221B Baker Street. Again. He should have expected this, really. Six long years of knowing Sherlock should have taught him by now that even when Lestrade went out of his way to accommodate the man, he would still do everything in his power to make the Inspector’s life as difficult as possible. Like, for example, when Lestrade made a special trip out to Sherlock’s flat to take him into the station for statements and paperwork because he knew that Sherlock would never come on his own. Or when he even waited until a very considerate hour of the morning before dropping by. Or when he didn’t arrest the big bloody wanker just on principle for being so irritating.

There was nothing for it, then. He _needed_ Sherlock and John’s statements today if they were to move forward with the case, and calling the damn phone again certainly wasn’t going to get him anywhere if Sherlock had decided to ignore it. There was no force on this earth more stubborn, or more frustrating for that matter, than a determined and recalcitrant Sherlock. With a weary sigh Lestrade rang the bell for 221A, praying that the long-suffering Mrs. Hudson was home to let him into the flat upstairs. Home she was, and she winked at him cheekily as she opened the door and waved him up the stairs. That should have been a clue that something was not quite right, but Lestrade lived his life surrounded by false clues, red herrings, and dead ends. Certainly he could take five minutes off from being constantly on his guard and just take a few things at face value.

He could not have been more wrong.

When a knock at the flat’s door produced no answer, Greg pushed the door open and entered the sitting room cautiously with the accumulated wisdom of a man who has walked into many unpleasant situations. Most of them in this flat. But this time there were no gunshots being fired, no body parts flying across the room, and no bored, stroppy detectives ready to bite his head off just for existing. But despite the emptiness of the sitting room, Greg felt his pulse skyrocket and his eyebrows shoot up in alarm at the state of the flat.

It was an utter disaster. Granted, this flat was not the cleanest or most organized of places on its best day. But the clutter usually was mostly contained to flat surfaces and kept somewhat in check thanks to the diligence of John and Mrs. Hudson, unlike the sheer chaos that reigned now. It looked like someone had ransacked the place, and not in an orderly pretend drugs bust sort of way. Furniture was overturned, papers were scattered on the floor, and Greg was fairly sure that one of the framed pictures on the wall was shattered. But even as he was reaching for his phone to call backup, it became clear to him that this was not a break in case at all. All it took was sighting one empty champagne bottle on the floor, followed by another, and another, and Greg realized with a smile what must have happened. He chuckled to himself as he imagined what a drunk Sherlock must have been like, shaking his head with a grin and feeling decidedly sorry for poor John who had to deal with him. The thought of Sherlock with a hangover was truly terrifying, and one that Greg was thoroughly glad he did not have to experience for himself.

But even as he was considering yelling up the stairs to John to tease him about whatever had happened last night, a sudden noise stopped him dead in his tracks. Or to be more specific, several loud, rhythmic, thumping noises froze him absolutely still in horror. Because there was absolutely no mistaking the distinctive tempo at which those thumps were happening, or the fact that they were decidedly issuing from _Sherlock’s_ room. As if to confirm his horrified theory and mentally scar him for the rest of his life, a voice that Greg would recognize anywhere came from that same room. That voice was usually barking commands, filled with scorn, or just generally ruining Greg’s life – but now it was none of those things. In fact, it was very clearly and very happily a moan.

“Oh, John, _yes_.”

Without a second thought, the Detective Inspector that had taken down some of London’s worst criminals turned on his heel and fled. Whether the feeling caused by that voice and its implications was disgust or arousal he could not tell, and he certainly did _not_ want to think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am unbelievably humbled, grateful, and amazed by the overwhelming response this story has received. I never expected it to become so popular or to have so many people ask for a continuation, but I hope this epilogue lives up to expectations. Enormous thanks to everyone who beta-read, offered help, advice, and support while I was wrestling with this story. I couldn't have done it without you.


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